


Being There

by evilmaniclaugh



Series: The Art of Not Falling Apart [2]
Category: Third Star (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:32:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1774285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles has moved on; his book is being published and Chloe and he are planning their wedding, but a chance encounter with Davy puts things into perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Being There

He's done it. After all these years of living in his father's posthumous shadow Miles finally holds, in his virtual hands, the last edit of his own novel. The cover art has been approved and all he has to do now is write the dedication.

To Dad. To James. To Chloe. To family. To friends. It's easy to trundle out words that sound like they mean something; that's his job. There's someone missing though. Someone who picked Miles up and shook him until it hurt. Who ignored all the venom and saw through the armour plating to something softer inside. And yet Miles can't even write his name. To my friend-

"Milo, are you finished? We have to meet the wedding planner in an hour."

Miles clenches his teeth in irritation. Only James ever called him that. The name belongs to him and no one else. "Almost done, Chlo," he calls.

"We'll drop the girls off at Sally's on the way to the hotel."

Miles ignores her. He's not interested in menus and cakes and talking to the sommelier about wine choices. He just wants to get this fucking dedication done and off to his editor. 

_To Davy, for always being there_ , he types and then he backspaces to the beginning of the line.

 

\--- 

 

It's the thousandth book Miles has signed today and his fingers are cramping from the effort. It'll be over soon, he tells himself. The post work rush is over and there are a just a few stragglers wandering into the shop before it closes.

"Who to?" he asks curtly as yet another copy of his book is thrust in front of him.

"Just put: to the whiny poof."

Miles looks up in honest delight and jumps to his feet. "Davy," he says. "It's great to see you."

Davy resembles a grown up. Designer suit, expensive manicure, Italian shoes, but still with that bloody fringe in his eyes and stubble that's teetering close to scruff. "Had a meeting over the road," he says, scrabbling to release himself from the noose of a tie. "Thought I'd pop in and say hi. So, hi."

"Been keeping tabs on me then." Miles is surprised and flattered. Even with Bill as a catalyst he and Davy don't ever call each other for a chat, or meet up for beers. The only time they see each other is at Chloe's parents’ house. Their mutual in-laws. Out of the blue something aches and Miles locks away that feeling to use in his next novel -- a story about loss.

Davy ducks his head shyly. "More of a vested interest I suppose. My company handles all the PR for your publishing house."

Miles isn't sure what to make of grown up Davy. "I don't know you at all, do I?" he says with a curious smile.

"Not really. Want to go for a drink?"

"Fuck yes." Miles waves over the last of his fans and after scribbling a couple of hasty autographs he packs away his belongings into the leather messenger bag Chloe bought him for his birthday. It's ugly and impractical, but he daren't tell her that. "Where to?"

"Wherever. My car's outside."

It takes an hour and a quarter to get out of London. "Hardly any traffic tonight," says Davy with a grin as he puts on a pair of sunglasses to ward off the late evening sunshine.

"Why even bother?" says Miles. Tubes, buses, trains: they get you from place to place efficiently enough.

"You always said I was lazy."

"You _are_ lazy. Practically immobile." Miles pictures James lying on the grass looking across at a snoozing Davy with such affection--love, he now knows--and wishes that someone would love him as much. 

They end up at a riverside pub near Windsor, sitting at an antiqued garden table and feeding a selection of outlandishly priced Italian breads to a family of middle class ducks.

Miles's phone rings and he takes it out of his pocket and switches it off. He's supposed to be discussing suits tonight with a Savile Row tailor. Chloe knows what she wants.

"I can chuck it in the river if you like." Davy lobs some foccacia at a passing swan and misses by a mile.

"Sorely tempted." Miles had always imagined his wedding would be different. Bill as his best man in a crumpled M&S suit. The rows of garden chairs stuffed to capacity with close friends and family. Davy... He can't quite picture Davy there. Somehow, he doesn't fit.

As they drive back to town Miles realises that they've barely spoken all evening and yet he's content, relaxed enough to sprawl across the passenger seat. It’s not like him at all. He's all about the tension, wound as tight as a clock spring. It must be that third glass of wine which is responsible for the unwinding.

"Where am I taking you?" asks Davy.

Miles looks at his watch. It's barely eleven.

"She won't bite," says Davy with a slow grin.

"What?"

"Chloe. She's not exactly fierce."

Miles sighs. "I was supposed to have a meeting about wedding suits tonight."

"Oh." Davy looks confused. "Don't you just buy one?"

"I thought so."

They end up back at Davy's place in Camden: a Georgian conversion with a microscopic kitchen, bedroom and bathroom and an immense living room that has floor to ceiling windows and cardboard boxes strewn all over the floor.

"Just moved in?" asks Miles and Davy throws him _that_ look as he makes space for them to sit down on the scratched, leather sofa.

When he goes off to fetch a bottle from the fridge Miles looks around the room, fully expecting to see evidence of a shrine. Chloe has photographs of her brother plastered everywhere. There's just one beautiful portrait of James here, carefully positioned on the sideboard next to a deformed, slate lighthouse.

Miles snorts with laughter when Davy returns and hands him an enormous glass of wine. "Are you trying to get me drunk?" 

"Sorry." Davy shrugs. "Miles, I need your advice. Would it be really fucking stupid of me to quit my job, sell my flat and just go?"

"Go where?" Miles feels a shiver of fear run up his spine. Somewhere in the background of his frenetic, disjointed life he's always had his best friends there as support. Now James is dead and Davy's talking about leaving. Soon It'll be just Bill and him chatting about what roses grow best in which soil.

"Dunno. Don't think I belong here."

The worst thing of all is that, minutes earlier, Miles had been struck by the same exact thought. He couldn't even fit Davy into his imaginary wedding party. "Do you like your job?" he asks, trying to summon up some helpful questions.

"Don't really know what I'm doing."

"But you're head of the fucking firm, Davy."

Davy shrugs again. "Doesn't mean I have a clue."

Miles can't help but smile. "What would you do instead?"

"Hunt for brown Vaders?" Davy chews thoughtfully at his lower lip. "Look after orphaned orangutans in Sumatra, maybe."

As if it had happened yesterday Miles remembers Davy collecting woodlice in a matchbox from a tree that was being cut down then rehoming them in the roots of an ancient beech. He must have made a hundred pointless trips that afternoon. Fuck! 

"Don't go," he says urgently, checking the glass to make sure he hasn't drunk all his wine. It's still there on the table, full to the brim.

"What?"

"I said, _don't go_." Cradling Davy's face in his hands Miles presses his mouth against that pouting lower lip, sucking at it and then licking into Davy's mouth with gentle swipes of his tongue. "Don't go."

Davy pulls back and studies him carefully, a frown etching furrows into his face. "I'm not a substitute for James."

"Chloe was the substitute." Chloe _was_. _Was_. Everything's clearer now. Miles kisses Davy again. He's not giving in until he’s kissed back. Or gets a punch in the face. He's not even sure which is the more likely of the two and yet Davy's so predictable, so steady, that he ought to know.

Hooking a leg beneath him Davy leans forward, resting his hand against the back of Miles's neck and rubbing his thumb in tight circles over the nape. "Don't fuck me about," he says in a guarded way.

"Why would I?" Miles stares at him in confusion.

"Because that's what you _do_. You say you'll be there and you have us waiting like twats for you to show up. And then you don't bother."

It hurts because it's the truth. How can Miles possibly explain that Davy's truths are the things that keep him sane? "I've stayed with Chloe, haven't I? It's not even working out between us and I'm still there for her."

Davy's voice pitches up as he slides as far away from Miles as he can get. "And that just makes the rest of us even stupider and you even more of a wanker. Why don't you understand?"

And then Miles does. Shoving himself against Davy he cards his fingers into that ridiculous hair and kisses him hard on the mouth over and over again until his face burns from the friction. "I'll explain everything, I'll explain us to Chloe. I'll try my best not to hurt Mr and Mrs G any more than I have done already. But don't go. Please. Give me a chance."

Davy is so obviously raw and petrified and Miles makes a promise to himself that he won't ever break him more than he has done right now. But at last he's here in the picture, where he belongs.

"I can't," Davy says as he picks up his wine glass from the coffee table and downs the contents far too quickly. "I'll call you a taxi."

"Davy. Davy, no." They often say it to him as a group when he's being particularly impossible or downright silly, but Miles has never spoken those words with such feeling. He takes hold of Davy's hands, trying to convey every wrought emotion. "Why not?"

"Because I don't know how to trust you," says Davy sadly.

And it's the truth. And it hurts.

 

\---end


End file.
